


Sweet, Sixer

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Incest, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5995861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet, Sixer

Ford starts at Stan’s fingers, and moves slowly along his arm, pausing at times to mouth at a particular nice spot - like the fluttering pulse point at his wrist, the inside of Stan’s elbow. Above him, Stan sucks in a nervous breath and Ford can’t help but smile into Stan’s skin at the absurdity of it all. Stan, the jock, feeling apprehension. 

It’s a change of pace, really allows Ford all the liberties he would never normally take due to his own anxieties. So he returns to Stan’s hand, lets a finger sink into his mouth where it half curls against the slick of his tongue. He gives the digit every attention, nibbling on it, sucking it slow, then harder, then letting it slide out, lapping at it’s thick, blunt edge as he watches Stan’s every reaction.

“Sixer,” Stan says when Ford graduates from his hand, moving to his throat. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Ford practically lays himself over Stan, and only lets his full weight on Stan when he’s certain his brother can take it. 

“I know,” he says, kissing a path through Stan’s chest hair - takes care to move around the thick gold chain - before he reaches the edge of Stan’s plain white tank top. “I don’t have to, but I _want_ to.”

Stan sounds perturbed. “Why? I’m not what I used to be, I’m old and fat and -”

“And you’re exactly what I want, so shut up and let me do this.” Ford snaps. He draws the tank up, Stan shivers, and pushes it until it’s over Stan’s head and thrown to the floor. There’s an uncertain look on Stan’s face, which suits Ford just fine because he’s been expecting this reaction. 

He can’t help himself when he presses his palms flat to Stan’s chest, feeling all of him as Stan waits with baited breath. Ford could do this all day, but the more pressing matters - pressed against the inside of his thigh - jolts him back to reality. He has the rest of his natural, and maybe unnatural, life to do this. 

He spares Stan’s nipples, even though they’re pebbled and _begging_ to be sucked, in favour of staring down between them - to the spot where they meet, and the place that Stan seems to hate the most. 

Ford tests the round mound of Stan’s stomach, teases the edge of Stan’s navel with flighty fingers and earns himself a surprised giggle. Stan always was ticklish in the weirdest of places. 

“Tell me you want me, Stanley,” Ford murmurs. He pats Stan’s stomach, rubs it, simply admires how fucking _soft_ Stan has gotten. He wants Stan to suffocate him, press him down and use all his new, perfect, weight to pound him into oblivion. 

“I obviously want you, dumbass,” Stan grunts, winces as Ford grabs at him through his boxers.  
“Gentle with the merchandise, sweetheart, you break it, you buy it.” 

Ford chuckles but says nothing, squeezing Stan through fabric. 

“Fuck, Poindexter,” Stan hisses through his dentures. 

The old nickname nearly kills Ford. It’s like a punch to the gut, of all the time he missed out on while he was lost in the multiverse. 

“Say it again,” Ford begs desperately. His hand disappears into Stan’s boxers.

“Poindexter?” Stan asks. Ford groans, leans over, his forehead coming to rest on Stan’s chest. 

“Again, Stanley, say it again and again and again,” Ford rambles as he moves, deft fingers unzipping his fly, somehow he shucks his pants all the while keeping an iron grip on Stan’s cock. 

“Poindexter,” Stan murmurs, his hand comes to rest at the base of Ford’s skull, “My sweet, sweet Sixer.”

Ford suddenly doesn’t have time. he urgently spits onto his fingers, reaches back and spears himself on them. When he hits the knuckle he stops, one hand holding Stan and the other wiggling within him. 

It’s been long, thirty years to be exact, and he’s _tight_. It’s almost unbearable but he can’t stop now. 

“Stanley,” He breathes, “Just, stay still, just- ah, just like this..”

He pulls Stan out of the boxers, and the elastic band must be digging painfully into Stan’s balls but he can’t care, not right now, not when he needs this. Needs Stan. 

He’s barely stretched and practically dry when he presses the head of Stan’s cock to his hole and tries to wiggle himself down onto it. There’s a scream building in the back of his throat as he pushes, _forces_ , and everything is far away as it catches and he plunges down. 

He hears Stan shout somewhere in the distance, the noise is only mildly alarming to Ford as he draws himself up and falls back down. It _hurts_ , fuck does it hurt. He deserves it, deserves every little pain, even if he feels as though he’s being turned inside out. He needs to feel this because he’s been a shitty brother let alone person and Stan wouldn’t understand but he can help Ford in this way, even if he doesn’t know it. 

There’s hands on Ford’s hips. this development is new, he thinks as a sob wretches itself from his chest. He struggles to push back down, seat himself back on Stan’s lap but some unknown force pushes at him. And suddenly his world is turned upside down and the carpet rubs a white hot burn across the naked skin of his ass. 

“Sixer!”

Ford blinks. He feels delirious as he stares up at Stan through his own tears and foggy glasses that sit ajar on his nose. Meaty hands hold his wrists down - yes, like this, he thinks and offers Stan a grim smile. 

“ _Stanford_!” 

It hits him like a freight train. Their positions, the ache at his core that pulses in turn with his frantic heart rate. 

“Breathe,” Stan says and Ford does so. They stay like that for a while, Stan never letting Ford go and ford enduring the waves of long pent up emotion as they wash over him. 

“Stanley,” Ford whispers when he feels he can talk again, form coherent words. 

“Yeah, Sixer?” 

“Let me up?” 

Stan tugs him up with a strength surprising for a man on the wrong side of sixty. Instead of letting Ford go, however, he pulls Ford into his chest.

“Are you hurt?” Stan asks. 

“No,” Ford murmurs against Stan’s throat. 

“You scared me,” Stan sighs into Ford’s hair. “You were fine.. then you just- I don’t know, you started crying.”

“I’m sorry,” Ford says, a tremble within his voice. He grips Stan’s shoulders as Stan rubs along the path of his spine. 

He says nothing when Stan lays him back, gasps when Stan kisses just above his sock and moves higher, nibbling on the inside of his thigh before leaning right over and nuzzling Ford’s wilted cock.  
When Stan takes it into his mouth Ford chokes, throws his head back and thinks _again_ it’s Stan doing everything for him, it’s Stan who’s making the compromise and Ford hates that he can’t string together a few decent moments without losing himself to his nightmares to give _Stan_ something. 

He presses a hand to his mouth, shuts his eyes tight and melts under Stan’s tongue, his legs shake when Stan finally pulls back, his lips swollen with the effort, a bit of spit on his chin.

Stan gives Ford a grin and pats his knee. 

“Where’d the other Stanford go?” Stan asks teasingly. Ford blushes and refrains from saying _that_ Ford was a bluff, the one that was on Stan’s lap acting as if he wasn’t doing all this for his own fucked up reasons. 

“No matter, Sixer, I like this one too,” Stan murmurs, voice gravely. His hands slide under Ford’s ass and he gives a heave, pulling Ford up and bending him in half at the waist. Stan reaches over and strokes Ford’s cock in one smooth downward stroke, smearing his thumb over the tip and eliciting a moan from his brother. “Yeah, yeah, like that, love it when you get all vocal.”

Ford opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what, maybe retort some half hearted insult at Stan but his words turn into a shocked keening. He jerks, confused for a breath before he realizes what exactly Stan is doing to him. 

He’s tender still and raw but he forgets about those discomforts as Stan’s tongue soothes over his entrance, circling his hole and lapping broadly over it. They’ve done stuff before, a long long time ago but never this - and Ford can’t really figure out _why_. 

He groans, gasps and reaches past his dripping, red cock to tangle all twelve fingers in Stan’s hair. 

“S-Stanley, oh-ohh, shit,” He moans, his toes curling as Stan’s tongue wiggles inside then disappears. 

“Always thought you’d like this,” Stan chuckles, pulling back some despite Ford’s grip. “Back then thought you’d say no to it, hygiene and all.” 

Ford stares at Stan. “You wanted to do this… _back then_?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, but-” 

Stan rolls his eyes. “But what, Stanford?” 

“I just,” Ford looks away, manages to contain a pleased shudder as Stan’s tongue pokes at the space behind his balls. “I just want to do something for you for a change.” 

Stan’s tongue freezes. “Is _that_ what this is about? You think you owe me this?”

“Yes- no, I guess.”

Stan gives Ford a hard look before shrugging Ford’s hands off. He tips Ford’s cock back and Ford’s hips move to accommodate the awkward angle. 

“And what would you do if I said I wanted this, exactly this, all of you spread out for me, Sixer, what then?” Stan asks, grips the base of Ford’s cock. 

Ford grasps at his sweater, trying to calm some of the sudden, enticing, anxiety and fear that bleeds into his gut as he stares up at Stan. “I-I don’t know.” He answers honestly, he twitches when Stan squeezes him. He sputters, “I’d want this, it, you.”

Stan nods to himself and Ford thinks that means he’s pleased with the answer. He has a moment to simply breathe before Stan is leaning over him and working two fingers inside, pressing easily past the tight ring of muscle. Ford utters a surprised “Oh!” and then Stan is kissing him on the mouth and cheek and nuzzling to his earlobe where he sucks and bites as he fucks Ford with two digits, then three when Ford’s body becomes lax and malleable. 

Ford holds onto Stan’s shoulders, his fingers maybe leaving marks but neither seem to care. He arches into Stan’s touch, groans and begs as Stan brutally fingers him. 

“Please!” He cries against Stan’s mouth, their teeth clashing together. He cups Stan’s face with his hands, brings them eye to eye. “ _Please_!” He repeats.

Something in Ford’s plea goes straight to Stan’s core. He grunts and shifts so he’s pressing heavy between the cleft of Ford’s ass. He ruts against his brother for a few breathless moments until Ford is bucking against him - Stan stares down at the six fingers that have slipped between them to work Ford’s cock, a part of him wants to sink down so his mouth can rejoin them but Ford is moaning his name. 

“Hold your horses, Poindexter.” He grumbles. His fingers slide free. He takes a second to spit into his palm and slick it over himself, though he’s sure it’ll hardly help. He plants a hand into the carpet beside Ford’s head and positions himself with his other. He stays still, touching Ford with just enough pressure that he barely breaches him. Stan’s not nearly inside, and he waits because he wants Ford to do the rest - and Ford does, scowling and wriggling until Stan slides inch by glorious inch into him. 

“Fuck, Stanford,” Stan says when he’s bottomed out and surrounded by wet, silky heat. 

Ford pants, wraps his legs around Stan’s waist, his ankles locking together.

“Damnit,” he says with a glare. “Don’t just sit there, Stanley!”

Stan jumps into action, surprising Ford who yelps. He smirks, bears down on his brother and starts to move. It’s slow at first, even thrusts that Ford takes with an odd grace; even though his legs are being pressed open by Stan’s girth and his insides twisting around themselves as Stan fucks him. Ford feels full, stretched, _owned_. 

He writhes beneath Stan, clawing at the carpet with one hand as he feverishly tugs at his cock with the other. 

When Stan changes the angle, Ford screams, his toes curling as Stan really buries himself deep into Ford’s guts. Stan thrusts against Ford wildly, pushing Ford along the carpet - it burns, white hot but it’s a contrast Ford enjoys. 

“Stanley, Stanley, _Stan_ , ohh- ahh!” Ford cries and suddenly he’s coming and Stan’s not stopping. He rides out his orgasm half conscious and sobbing as he grabs at Stan, tries to bring him closer, as if that were even possible, his nails digging welts into Stan’s back.

Ford is gasping when he blinks himself back. Stan is rubbing his arms, then his legs and Ford thinks this is nice. His face heats, however, when he realizes Stan is still inside him, growing soft but definitely still inside him. 

He offers Stan a tired grin and Stan returns it, his meaty hands now kneading at Ford’s hips, his stomach, tracing from his navel up. Ford shuts his eyes as fingers followed by lips traverse the edges of his mouth. 

He smiles into the kiss.


End file.
